


dust off these cobwebs

by Castleinthegale



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Crossover, Gen, Humor, I just wanted a Peter Parker and Stiles Stilinski bromance, Identity Reveal, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Roommates, sort of future fic but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-11-22
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castleinthegale/pseuds/Castleinthegale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is desperate, okay. He's trying to keep his identity as Spidey hidden from his roommate. Only it's exceedingly difficult, since Stiles keeps popping up around the city at the worst possible moments, like right in the middle of a fight. What if Stiles is a plant, working for yet another villain? Or what if, even worse, he's a crazy stalker? Maybe Peter's just being too paranoid.</p><p>Stiles' roommate is quiet and weird, but actually pretty nice and crazy smart. Also he seems to be even clumsier than Stiles, coming back home at odd hours and usually sporting some pretty impressive bruises. Stiles thinks maybe he's in a gang, but that theory doesn't seem to fit right. Also, he's maybe a werewolf because his injuries heal surprisingly fast. But if he were, Stiles should have heard something from his new supernatural  friends in NYC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dust off these cobwebs

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Pheebs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phoapostrophes) for beta-ing and general cheer-leading while I was writing this, I creepy-pulsating-heart you. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> I've wanted for a long time for a 'Stiles Stilinski meets Peter Parker and they become best bros' fic, I think these kids would get on great with each other. Sadly, most crossovers just feature Stiles AS Peter Parker. So I gave up waiting and wrote my own. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Realised italics didn't translate over to rich text and fixed it.

 

Peter’s all settled in. Aunt May had been a little dubious about accepting the whole roommate at college thing. (“But Pete, what if they find out about your  _secret_?”) But ultimately, the decision had been made because they just couldn’t afford to rent an apartment off campus, so that had been that.

Well, Peter reasons, at least this way he’s closer to New York. He has a city to protect, afterall.

The roommate’s running a little late. Peter’s already got all his, albeit meagre, possessions put away in his half of the room. He’d made sure the separation was distinct, too. God knows if his new roommate is one of those anal ones who can’t stand a stray sock over the metaphorical line of his personal space. Peter hopes not, between juggling school and saving New York, he won’t really have a lot of time for organisation.

Speaking of, that must be him now. Peter can hear some thunking and muffled swears through the close door of their room. There’s a moment where Peter’s enhanced hearing picks up the sound of the person fumbling with their keys. Then, the door swings open and reveals a lanky boy with brown hair, dragging a luggage that looks just about ready to pop like a ripe kernel.

“Oh hey,” the boy stops short as he sees Peter standing awkwardly in front of him. He sticks his hand out and flashes a wide smile, “I’m Stiles, I guess you’re Peter?”

Peter shakes the proffered hand, feeling a little blindsided. “Uh, hey. How did you-”

“Know your name?” Stiles cuts him off with a sheepish smile. “I looked you up when we were assigned. I just like knowing things, you know, fortune favours the prepared and all that. I only looked up your name and where you were from though! I promise I’m not some creepy stalker, although we may have gotten off on the wrong foot there.”

Peter offers Stiles a smile. He seems nice; enthusiastic and friendly, although the obsessive curiosity thing could be a problem if Stiles took too much of an interest in his late night shenanigans. He hurriedly extracts himself from  _that_  line of thought. No use worrying about that now. Besides, Stiles will have his own college life to distract him from his roommate. Tone down the paranoia there, Pete.

As he watches Stiles bustle around unpacking, another thought occurs to him.

“Hey, what kind of a name is Stiles?” Because seriously? Did his parents hate him?

Stiles tilts his head from where he’s fiddling with his computer. “Oh it’s a nickname. Trust me, no matter how weird you think  _Stiles_  is, my real name is weirder. Also Polish, and definitely harder to pronounce.”

Peter doesn’t really know how to respond to that, but he’s saved from having to when Stiles straightens up and twirls to face him, rubbing his hands together. His face is pulled into a satisfied grin. “Want to play some Call of Duty? I’ve hooked my system up to my com.”

“What about your unpacking?” Peter raises an eyebrow at the books and clothes strewn haphazardly on Stiles’ bed in the wake of his burrow for his computer.

“Psh, what unpacking?’ Stiles’ eyes shine with mirth as he shrugs easily, “I’ll do it later.”

Peter grins and reaches up to grab the proffered remote. A roommate might not be such a bad idea after all.

 

* * *

 

A roommate was a horrible idea.

Stiles is extremely sharp, and way too intuitive for his own good. He’s studying to be a  _detective_  for goodness’ sake! Well done, Pete, you got yourself saddled with the  _one_ person on campus who could possibly figure out your little secret.

So much for Stiles being too busy with his own life to notice Peter’s odd comings and goings. He’s definitely noticed.

The first time Peter crawled in at ass o’clock at night sporting a bruised jaw and a slight limp, Stiles had been awake. Peter had come up with some cracked story about tripping while taking out the trash. (Actually not entirely incorrect, those bastards had been the lowest of scum, mugging and attempted gang rape. Peter was glad he managed to step in when he did. But even Spider-man couldn’t take on five men at once while trying to shield a traumatised civilian. And two of them had gotten their hands on some steel pipes. He can heal, but those things still  _hurt_.) Stiles hadn’t looked convinced, but he didn’t push the issue. For which, Peter was exponentially grateful. He’d vowed to be more careful in the future about when he came home from patrol, before promptly crashing into bed.

Avoiding Stiles when he comes back at night would be much easier if Stiles actually goes to bed  _like a normal person_. As it is, Stiles  _never_  seems to sleep. He sometimes stays up past 4am tapping away at his keyboard, big eyes made wider by the ethereal glow from the computer screen. He’s also oddly secretive about whatever it is he does on his late night computer benders. Whenever Peter inquires, all he gets are elusive answers and shifty-eyed responses, “I’m writing a research paper.” Or, “Just looking into something for a friend.”

Whatever, Peter’s mostly too tired to care. He’s given up trying to come in after Stiles has gone to bed. Now, he just does his best to hide the worst of his injuries. He knows he’s not getting away with it though. He catches Stiles watching him sometimes, with this calculating gleam in his eyes. It sends a chill down Peter’s spine, a feeling not unlike his spidey-sense. It makes him wonder if perhaps Stiles is not just the excitable criminology major that he seems.

 

* * *

 

Stiles is  _thrilled_. He's literally in the same city as Spider-fucking-man! He'd been psyched to get the acceptance letter from Empire State University. The pack hadn't been as happy. Especially Derek. And Scott.

(He'd been treated to the full puppy-eye package, “Dude!! I thought we said pack would stick together!”)

But they all knew this was too good an opportunity for Stiles to pass up. ESU had the best criminology course in the country. Not to mention, a thriving supernatural underworld right there in New York City. Sending Stiles to study in New York would benefit the pack, the alliances he could navigate would be useful in the future. As an Emissary-in-training, Stiles would also be gaining some useful experience and knowledge about the supernatural world.

So, begrudgingly, the pack had met him at the airport to see him off. It’d been a very clingy and teary affair. Honestly, you'd have thought he was going off to  _war_ or something. Even Jackson had been less douchebaggery than usual, which,  _weird._ But Stiles could roll with it.

And with that, he arrived in New York City.

The moment he touched down, Stiles felt it. The ley lines running under the city, stronger and more powerful than the Nemeton back in Beacon Hills. They thrummed with energy, pulsing in sync with the heart of the city. Stiles felt his own spark surge in response. Yep, coming to New York had definitely been the right decision.

Stiles’ first stop was to his new dorm on campus. He'd researched his roommate, to ascertain that he was not a hunter from some crazy trigger-happy family. ( _Hello, paranoia, my old friend_.) But he'd only done the bare minimum on Peter Parker, because intense stalking did not a good first impression make.

Peter had been quiet and shy at first, but soon warmed up after some good old COD. He seemed nice, hiding a wicked sense of humour and beautiful sarcasm behind his awkward shell. They then went out for dinner to a local pizzeria Derek had recommended. (“A friend who used to live here told me to check out this place.”) After which, Peter excused himself saying that he had some errands to run.

All good, because Stiles has some ‘errands’ too.

 

* * *

 

That is how Stiles finds himself outside a nondescript little bar in New York City on a pleasant Sunday evening. The glare of the neon sign perched outside promises ‘Mystic Night - Free entry for members’. There is no queue outside its doors, and no bouncers. He double checks that he's got the address right, sucks in a deep breath, and enters the shady-ass bar.

The noise and lights hit his senses as hard as entering any other bar. More than that, though, is the soft ripple of pure energy that washes over him the moment he steps through the doors. It feels like he has passed into a bubble, everything is simultaneously enhanced and muffled. Although quite disconcerting, the energy does not feel malicious, so Stiles shakes his head to clear it and heads towards the bar. The place is surprisingly packed, and he can feel a dozen pairs of eyes on him, but when he turns to look, no one is paying him any mind. Yet, he gets the impression that everyone is staring at him. The intrigue in the room is palpable.

He pulls himself up onto a bar-stool. Instantly, a bartender is in front of him, eyebrow raised in question. “Uh, a glass of Coke?” Stiles hazards. The bartender snorts.

“ID?” He taps his fingers impatiently on the counter when Stiles just gapes at him.

“What do you need my ID for?” Stiles grumbles, pulling out his wallet. “Last I checked, Coke contains no alcohol. Caffeine, yes, but that’s legal and unregulated.” He slides his ID across the counter.

The bartender gives it a cursory glance before sliding it back. “You’ll get your coke, Mr Stilinski. Mr Astor will be with you shortly.”

He turns away, and _yep,_ Stiles is definitely in the right place. The dude has a fucking  _cat’s tail_  poking out under the back of his classy bartender vest. Stiles struggles to control his facial expression, glancing faux nonchalantly around the room.

“He’s a  _bakeneko,_ he thinks the tail makes him look cute.”

A whisper right next to his ear startles Stiles so badly he nearly topples off his stool. “Jesus Christ!”

“Nope, I’m Calum,” Stiles whips around to find a brunette grinning, dare he say,  _wolfishly_  at him.

He’s younger than Stiles expected, and dressed like a member from a pop punk band to boot, but that aura of strength is unmistakable.

Stiles is careful not to bare his neck as he says, “Alpha Astor. I am Stiles Stilinski, Emissary to the Hale pack.”

His tone is formal and his eyes flick momentarily down before meeting Alpha Astor’s eyes. Respectful, but not submissive. Derek had made sure to drill him in proper pack etiquette before he left.

Alpha Astor nods in approval, and his eyes flare crimson in acknowledgement.

“Your Alpha sent a note to say you would be coming. With my authority as Alpha of the Astor pack, I give you permission to study here on our pack’s land in the city of New York. We grant you safe passage, as long as you uphold our pack’s laws and remain respectful of the power that is our right as the reigning supernatural power in this territory.”

Stiles nods. “Thank you, Alpha Astor.”

“You’re welcome, man. Call me Calum.”

And just like that, the formality melts away and the tension Stiles had been feeling in the room is released.

“Glad that’s over,” Calum stretches languidly, arms over his head. “I hate formalities, but pack business is pack business.” He slides into the stool next to Stiles with a grace that Stiles will never ever possess, as Stiles watches jealously.

He eyes Stiles out the corner of his eye, “I’ve got to say, though, that’s one powerful spark you have.”

“Sorry?” Stiles frowns.

“He’s right. You’ve got an unusually powerful spark. It’s pretty raw, too. Have you received any formal training?” A short middle aged lady has suddenly appeared by Calum’s elbow. She’s gazing at Stiles, critical and assessing. He fidgets uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

“Not formally? I didn’t really have anyone to teach me. I just sort of cobbled together what I could from some books left behind by the old emissary.”

That had  _not_  been easy. Some of them had been in Latin and Greek, he’d had to recruit Lydia to help him with translation, and even then it had been fifty-fifty. And Deaton, the useless bastard, had up and retired to Maine or something. Stiles neither knew nor cared. “Sorry, but who are you?”

“This is Greta, my pack’s emissary.” Calum’s mouth twists nervously as Greta’s expression flips from judging to scandalised.

“Dear child, no training! It’s a wonder you haven’t killed yourself yet!”

Which,  _rude_. Stiles has never come anywhere close to killing himself or anyone, thank you very much. (There  _was_ that one spell attempt that set Scott’s hair on fire. His eyebrows had been singed clear off, but he’s a werewolf, he survived. The eyebrows even grew back, too.) He doesn’t really get what the big deal is, and tells Greta as much.

Calum sighs like he’s watching someone self-destruct.

This is how Stiles gets wrangled into extra-curricular Emissary training after college lectures everyday. Well, he did come here to gain experience.

At least, that’s what he tells himself when he forces himself through the endless lists of Latin conjunctions and verb forms that Greta assigns ( _condemns)_ him to memorise before their next session.

 

* * *

 

Peter can feel Gary Stanford staring at him again.

His neck tingles and he hunches over his lunch and tries hard to ignore him. Peter doesn't like to type-cast, but Gary  _really_  pushes the jock stereotype. Blond, and buff, and perpetually walking in a group with his posse, identifiable by their matching varsity jackets. Not totally brainless, unfortunately, considering he got into ESU. Peter caught his attention in the worst possible way when he unwittingly corrected Gary’s proposed algorithm in their second week of tutorial. He thought the juvenile bullying was supposed to stop at high school. As it turns out, some people never grow out of douchebaggery.

Something wet and distinctly slimy hits the back of Peter’s head.

It's not like Peter doesn't face down threats much bigger than Gary Stanford’s bruised ego on a daily basis. Sometimes, though, it can be hard not to wish that his identity was just a little less secret so his  _arachnid friend_ could take that asshole down a peg. Tough luck, Parker.

“What a fucking asshole.”

Stiles plonks his bag down in the seat opposite him. Peter blinks.

“Where on earth did you come from!” For someone who regularly trips on the stairs, Stiles could move with surprising stealth sometimes.

“What, I can't have lunch with my favourite roommate? I'm hurt, Parker,  _hurt_.” Stiles grins impishly as he digs a  _monstrosity_ of a sandwich out of his bag.

Peter’s nose wrinkles as Stiles unwraps it. “What is  _in_  that thing! It looks likes it’s about to develop its own colony of sentient bacteria. I major in bio-chem engineering, and I can say with authority that that  _thing_  is a biochemical hazard.”

Stiles looks faintly green, “Yeah, I think it's gone bad.”

“You  _think_?”

“Hey! Keep your judgemental eyebrows to yourself!” Stiles grumbles, then his glum expression morphs into a smirk even more impish and terrifying than his grin. “Maybe I don't have to waste this sandwich. I've got an idea that will take care of it,  _and_  Mr Tall-Blond-Dickhead over there. Listen, I’ve got a  _plan_ ”

He  _cackles_.

Peter listens to the plan, and he can’t help it. He cackles too.

 

* * *

 

Peter tried at first, he really did. He tried to keep his distance from Stiles, out of respect for Stiles’ safety, and to preserve his own secret identity. Stiles, however, had no such qualms. He’d sidled his way into Peter’s life, making it a point to eat lunch with him, and inviting him out for general ‘hanging out’.

It’s nice.

Peter doesn’t want to admit it, but it has been a while since he’s had a friend he could talk to and chill with. (Deadpool definitely  _does not_  count) He likes Stiles. The roommate is fun and geeky, he’s also whip-smart, much like Peter himself. They’ve spent hours debating Batman versus Superman, and marathoning Star Wars, it is amazing.

Until now.

Lately, Stiles has been acting weird. Well,  _weirder_  than usual.

He sleeps later than usual, even for Stiles. Peter’s been falling asleep to the sound of Stiles tic-tacking away at his laptop, mumbling to himself under his breath.

Sometimes, Peter’s not even sure that what Stiles is mumbling is even  _English_.

He gets texts that send him rushing out the door with flimsy excuses. They make  _tripped while taking out the trash_  seem  _believable_.

Some nights, he returns even later than Peter, smelling faintly singed and/or of weird spices.

Peter is trying very hard not to be suspicious. Still, there’s a persistent little voice in the back of his mind that whispers. What if Stiles is a plant trying to get to him to expose him? Or part of yet another diabolical plan to make Spider-man's life an even greater hell? Or what if, even worse, he's a crazy Spidey stalker?

That’s crazy talk, Pete, no way. Stiles is cool. Shut up, little voice.

Peter should be concentrating on his patrol. It’s as quiet as any night can get in New York, inconsistent with the recent increase in activity that Peter’s been logging. Just a couple attempted muggings. Nothing overtly  _strange_.

Suddenly, a roar that is distinctly  _not-human_  echos from a few streets over. Welp, speak of the devil.

Peter swings over and braces himself, the monsters lately have become more monstrous. He’s expecting some new villain to make themselves known sometime soon. Probably with a grand plan to enslave the human race or something. Who knows.

He drops down into the alleyway. “Have no fear, your friendly neighbourhood Spider-man is here!”

“Holy shit!”

Stiles is flailing, and gaping at him. Which,  _what?_

“St- Hello random citizen whom I have never met! Have you witnessed any disturbances in the general area recently?”  _Nice save, Parker._

“Yeah, um. This weird dwarf thing? I, uh, it looked fierce, and bitey. Very sharp teeth, uh, it went. That way?” Stiles stammers out, waving vaguely out the alley.

“Thank you, stay vigilant, don’t do drugs!”

Peter winces aims a web shooter and swings the hell of of the alleyway as fast as he can. What on earth was  _Stiles_  doing there? He needs to be more careful, or he might end up accidentally outing himself to his roommate.

Peter sees neither hide nor hair of any ‘weird dwarf thing’ that night. It must have crawled back into whatever dark hole it came from. Well, one less thing for Peter to worry about. He counts it a blessing.

 

* * *

 

Stiles’ duties have apparently extended to helping the members of the supernatural community in New York with their supernatural problems. Greta must have posted his phone number on some skeevy supernatural help column online or something, because he’s been getting a steady stream of requests for help and advice. And seriously? People seeking  _his_  opinion on important matters? That’s some intense personal growth right here, man. Scott would be proud.

Usually it’s simple stuff like warding their homes or developing general protective charms. Sometimes, bigger problems fall into his lap, because the  _actual_  Emissary is too busy with more important matters.

Stiles isn’t complaining. It’s good practice, and he’s actually getting paid. So hey, perks!

Tonight, he’s hunting a Silvercap.

(“Descendents of the Redcaps, they have evolved with the development of the humans and have moved from haunting castles to lurking in cities.” Greta explains. “They are supposed to be extremely rare. However, people have been observing some nuisance-”

“So we’re on pest control. Right, got it!”)

Armed with a pouch of powdered mistletoe and the words of a Greek banishment on the tip of his tongue, Stiles stalks down the streets of the troubled neighbourhood.

“Where are you, you little bastard?”

Something clatters in the alley just up ahead. Stiles creeps towards the source of the noise, sliding his fingers into his pouch and gathering a handful of mistletoe as he goes.

The alleyway is dark, but the light from the solitary street lamp stationed at its mouth is just enough for him to make out a vague shape crouched in the farthest end. The disgusting slurping sounds emitting from it cease suddenly as it registers the presence of an intruder. The figure straightens.

Then lunges straight for Stiles.

He glimpses blood red eyes and  _shit_ , that is  _a lot_  of teeth. His hand shoots forward, and he flings the mistletoe right into the creature’s snarling face. The foreign words of the spell roll off his tongue with practised flow. Stiles stares as the Silvercap freezes, inches from his outstretched arm, and disintegrates into ash grey dust.

He releases a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and immediately chokes on the smell of blood and death that permeates the air.

“Oh  _fuck_  that is nasty.”

A half scavenged cat lays where the Silvercap abandoned it to attack Stiles. It is very dead and  _very_  gross. Stiles wrinkles his nose, but there isn’t much he can do about it. He turns to leave, internally congratulating himself for yet another a job well done.

When something red, blue, and big falls down right next to him.

Accompanied by a loud, “Have no fear, your friendly neighbourhood Spider-man is here!”

“Holy  _shit_!” Stiles stumbles back and  _no way_.

Spider-man.  _Spider-man_  is standing  _right there_. Spider-man is standing right there  _in front of him_.

Stiles gapes.

“Hello! Have you witnessed any disturbances in the general area recently?” Stiles blinks himself back to the present, to realise that  _Spider-man_  is addressing him.

Mind racing, Stiles blurts out the first thing that pops into his head, “Uh, yeah. This weird dwarf thing? It looked fierce, and  _really_  bitey. Very sharp teeth, uh, it went. That way?” He points helpfully out the alleyway. Actually, Spider-man is standing on it. Ah well, he can’t exactly say that he already took care of it.

“Thank you, stay vigilant, don’t do drugs!” The figure swings out of the alley, gone just as quickly as he had appeared.

Stiles is left with a pile of swirling dust and his brain doing that Windows rebooting thing. Then his mind abruptly kicks back into action, and something about the encounter strikes him. Spider-man’s voice had been young, and strangely familiar.

Stiles frowns.

* * *

 

Their room is empty when Stiles returns home. It is late, but the lack of a roommate isn’t unusual.

Peter is quiet and weird, but actually pretty nice and wicked smart. Also he seems to be even clumsier than Stiles, often coming home late at night, and usually sporting some pretty impressive bruises.

Stiles suspects involvement with a gang, but that theory doesn't quite sit right. Or, maybe he’s a werewolf, because Stiles has noticed that Pete’s injuries heal surprisingly fast. Although, if he were, Stiles should have heard something from Calum at least. Any wolves in NYC would have made themselves known to the Astor Pack.

Usually, Stiles shrugs it off. As far as he knows, Peter isn’t a threat. But tonight, there’s a thread of an idea floating around in his mind. When Stiles gets a thread, he  _grabs_  and  _pulls_ , because past experience has taught him that ignoring his instincts never end well. (Exhibit A: Matt Daehler)

Peter’s desk is neat as always. Books stacked neatly in the corner, the table devoid of the notes and blueprints Peter normally has spread out whenever he’s working on some crazy difficult bio-chem engineering coursework. Stiles swallows down the guilt that bubbles up when he opens Peter’s desk drawer.  _Sorry, buddy_ , but paranoia has no place for respect of privacy. And well, he  _has_  done worse things.

The first drawer yields nothing but a stack of notes shoved in haphazardly (only neat on the surface, eh Pete) and some miscellaneous stationery rattling about the bottom. The second drawer is locked, that alone sets off Stiles’ mental alarms. Locked drawers mean something to hide. He picks the lock with relative ease and pulls it open.

The second drawer is a  _treasure trove_.

Another stack of blueprints, but these, Stiles knows enough to decipher  _these_  rough sketches. The blueprints that are distinctly  _not_  bio-chemical related, that much is obvious. If Stiles needed another clue, the busted web-shooter and reels of webbing canisters tucked away neatly in the back of the drawer is more than enough to confirm his theory.

Peter Parker is Spider-man.

 _Stiles’ roommate_  is Spider-man.

 _Holy shit_.

* * *

 

After that first time, Stiles starts popping up  _everywhere._ He has the absolute  _worst_  sense of timing, always stumbling in right as Spider-man is engaged in a fight with the monster of the night.

Seriously, did the guy have a death wish or something?

It's getting exceedingly difficult to avoid his roommate, and Peter’s taken to keeping a sensory eye open for Stiles’ approach whenever he is engaged in a fight. Hypervigilance. It's draining, but Peter keeps it up, because the alternative would be much  _much_  worse.

 

* * *

 

After his  _mind-blowing_  discovery, Stiles makes it a point to keep an eye out for the friendly neighbourhood Spider-man while he works his supernatural cases.

He tries to steer Peter away from the less mundane crimes, Peter’s got enough on his plate as it is. Stiles can handle the more unnatural cases. It’s working, mostly.

The problem is that, lately there have been so many irregularities that Stiles is finding it hard to keep up. Distracting a vigilante is no easy endeavour. As the label suggests, Spider-man is frustratingly  _vigilant_.

But Stiles is not without his own skills of observation. He’s noticed that Peter’s been more frazzled as of late. He’s barely slept, spending most of the night out in the city, and the rest of the day studying. Stiles is worried about him. Some days, it seems that Peter doesn’t even eat. That’s not healthy.

So Stiles prepares a rejuvenating potion, and pours it into an air freshener, (patented Stilinski pick-me-up, tried and tested on one Alpha werewolf) which he leaves in their room.

Then he sets off into the city night in search of a Spider.

 

* * *

 

“Hey man.”

Peter drops into yet another alley to find Stiles leaning against the wall, half-hidden in shadow. He’s not surprised to find his roommate lurking, he’d chosen to drop into  _that_  particular alley fully aware of its inhabitant.

“Dude, what’s your problem! Have you been following me around?”

Peter has to know. Avoidance seems to have failed, so the only thing left to do is find out  _why_  Stiles is stalking Spider-man, and hopefully discourage him from doing so in the future. With minimal threatening, because Peter is not  _SHIELD_.

Stiles shrugs. “Not particularly. Our destinations just keep coinciding. Weird, huh?”

Stiles is  _lying_.

“I don’t believe you. Stop following me. Or I’ll be forced to do something drastic to stop you. Permanently.” Peter winces behind the mask. Was that good enough? He sucks at the whole intimidation thing. Daredevil is always mocking him for it.

It doesn’t work. Stiles just grins wolfishly at him, “You sure? Because it looks like you could use some help sometimes.”

Peter bristles at the implied jab at his abilities. He’s doing perfectly well. Sure, the hordes of troublemakers with unnatural abilities seem to have increased in numbers as of late, but he is handling them just fine. Never mind that he has gotten an average of three hours of sleep in the last few days. Beside, nothing against civilians but, what can a scrawny college student do to help  _Spider-man_?

Speaking of sleep deprivation, Peter’s insomnolence seems to be finally affecting him. His muscles tremble from where he’s crouched on the wall.

“Hey, are you alright?” Stiles’ worried voice cuts through his fog of exhaustion.  _Uh oh._

Peter beats a hasty retreat, swinging up and out of the alley. Somehow, he makes it back to their dorm without incident and barely manages to stash away his suit, before he crashes into what he hopes is his own bed.

He is asleep before his head even touches the pillow.

 

* * *

 

When Peter wakes, his head is the clearest it has been in days. His body is relaxed and he has full, un-sluggish control of his limbs. It feels amazing.

It’s evening. Peter’s apparently slept for an entire day, as Stiles’ slapdash handwriting informs him, scrawled on a post-it he finds on his desk. Stiles has called his professors to let them know that Peter wasn’t feeling well. That was a nice thing to do. He feels bad for doubting Stiles, but not enough to completely absolve him of suspicion.

Speaking of, the room is conspicuously lacking of one Stiles Stilinski. Probably off on another one of his alley-jaunts around town. Peter drags himself out of bed, he has a duty to perform. No rest for the wicked means no rest for the wicked-fighters either.

He’s dragging on his suit when something catches his eye. It’s a box, shoved hastily under Stiles’ bed. Curious, Peter pulls it out and studies it.

The box is surprisingly heavy, and decorated with intricate carvings and weird markings that look rough, like they’d been scratched into the wood with a nail. It isn’t locked, and Peter easily slides the cover off. The box is lined with vials and vials filled with weird looking plants (herbs?), strangely coloured viscous liquids, and powder. There is also a bundle of paper tucked into the side of the box. Peter pulls them out and sees that they are covered in lines of text in foreign languages, inked by Stiles’ distinct handwriting, as well as those markings he now realises are  _sigils_.

Shoot, is Stiles an  _occultist_? That would explain the late night alley wandering and urgent texts. Probably from his fellow  _occult_   _gang_  members. Damn, Parker. What have you landed yourself with?

He slides the box shut and shoves it back under the bed.

Then, with unease rumbling in his belly, he launches himself out the window, into the New York City night.

He needs to find Stiles.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has the worst luck.

He’s in an emergency meeting with the main supernatural authorities of the territory. Meaning Alpha Astor and a few other representatives from the different supernatural factions. Greta, as the Astor Pack’s Emissary, is present. Apparently, Stiles has been invited because he’d somehow become the territory’s neutral consultant. (Also, the Astor Pack’s Emissary’s Assistant, because he  _knows_  Greta has been taking advantage of his availability)

The meeting was called because it turns out that all the weird creatures, like the Silvercaps and that weird land-bound vampire siren (don’t ask), that have been popping up lately are  _not_  a natural NYC occurrence. Someone has been feeding negative energy into the city’s ley lines, and mutating the natural energy that keeps the city and its hidden community alive.

Of course, this happens just as Stiles arrives in the city. So now it’s  _his_  problem too. Seriously, _the wors_ t luck. The universe hates him.

“So, as I was saying, the mutations do not seem to be limited to merely the supernatural citizens. There have been reports of cats morphing into dogs, and vice versa. Mundanes have also complained of books growing sentience and snapping at their owners, as well as-”

“Microorganisms setting up colonies in unusual places?” Stiles cuts in. “Because that will explain  _so_  much.”

The Fae representative, who works a day job as an officer of the law, glares at his interruption. “Yes, that too. As well a-”

“Yes, okay. So what can we do about this?” Calum places his hands palms flat on the meeting-slash-dining table they’ve huddled around in the Astor pack’s den. he ignores the outraged stare the Fae officer directs at him.

“We have to find the one who is causing all of this, and then we will know how to address the problem,” Greta smiles serenely around the table. “We shall, of course, split our duties with the usual democracy.”

“Great!” Calum claps his hands together. “We’ll draw lots.”

Stiles drops his head into his hands with a muffled groan.

(He draws the short straw.)

 

* * *

 

When Peter finally finds Stiles, he’s crouching behind a dumpster in yet  _another_  alleyway.

“Do you have a particular affinity for musty, rotty alleys, or is there something special about them? Not judging, dude, but seriously?”

Stiles jumps violently and whips around to face him, nearly face-planting into the dumpster.  _Ew, be careful Stiles, I share a room with you._

“Fuck, dude! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Yeah well, you better give me a good reason as to why you’re crouching behind a dumpster at this time of night. Or I’ll be forced to web you for the authorities to retrieve.” Peter folds his arms across his chest and tries to look strict and unyielding.

“Yeah, yeah. Um.” Stiles keeps glancing nervously down the street. Is he signalling for his occultic backup or something?

“Uh. So it’s like thi-”

Stiles stiffens mid-sentence, his head is tilted towards the street, and everything about his body radiates tension. He’s poised to flee.

Peter frowns and follows Stiles’ line of sight.

A gigantic, amorphous being is sliding down the street, heading straight towards them.

“What on  _earth_ is that thing!”

“Listen to me, we need to go. Like now, right now,” Stiles is fumbling with the pockets of his hoodie, pulling out a bag of...sand? Peter is just befuddled now, maybe he’s still sleeping, because this is probably a dream.

He surreptitiously pinches his arm. Nope, definitely awake. Damn.

“Hey,  _hey_! Spidey! You with me? We have to go!”

Peter shakes himself, “Nope this is some kind of trick you’re playing on me. Very clever, but your occult fantasies are just that,  _fantasies_. You’ve got to give it up. Seek help. There is no shame in therapy.” He tries to smile reassuringly, then remembers that Stiles can’t see anything through his mask.

Stiles growls in frustration. “Spidey, this is  _not_ -”

Whatever he says is lost when the amorphous being snakes out a long tendril of mist and wraps itself around Stiles’ waist. He yells angrily and it yanks him up, dangling him upside down.

Stiles’ shout galvanises Peter into action. He forcibly shakes off his shock and aims a web at the grey thing. The fibre shoots harmlessly through the barely tangible body of the thing. Uh oh.

Peter swallows back panics as he tries to figure out what to do next. He has to rescue Stiles, but this is way out of his area of expertise. It is then that he realises that Stiles isn’t shouting in English anymore.

Stiles is hurling an onslaught of foreign words at the monster holding him, as he tosses a handful of sand around the being. To Peter’s amazement, the sand rains down to trap the thing in a perfect circle.

“... _What_.”

Stiles twists his body and lifts up his hoodie to reveal a sheath strapped tightly against his torso. From there, he pulls out a terrifyingly  _huge_  dagger. With a howl, he plunges the dagger straight into the tendril still wrapped around his waist. Unlike the webbing, the knife sticks in the creature and severs the tendril trapping Stiles. He falls and hits the ground, stumbles upright, and takes off running down the street.

“Move! Peter!”

It’s the shock of hearing his name that restarts Peter’s mind as he takes off after Stiles. Whatever Stiles did, it didn’t last, and the creature has broken free of its ring of sand and is gliding intently towards them. Until today, Peter has never thought a cloud could look so  _angry_.

It takes another few precious seconds for Peter to remember that he is _Spider-man_. He shoots a web strand and swings forward to scoop Stiles up. He doesn’t know where he’s going, except  _away_  from the murderous mist-monster.  _Heh, alliteration_ , he thinks giddily.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” Stiles’ eyes are screwed shut, and his death grip on Peter is sort of constricting his airways.

He sets down on a rooftop far away enough from the monster street. Stiles immediately lets go and steps away from Peter. He drops the dagger he’d been clutching, braces himself against a ledge and dry heaves. Peter lets him have his moment, but he can barely hold himself back. When Stiles’ breathing eases somewhat, he explodes.

“What the hell!”

Stiles winces and says nothing, still gasping for breath.

“You know! You know I-”

Peter cuts himself off, he still can’t bring himself to say it. He takes a deep breath and physically pulls himself back. He drags his mask off, and looks Stiles straight in the eyes.

“When?”

Stiles’ voice is raspy when he answers, “Since the first night I met you. Spider-man, you.”

“And you never said anything?!”

“You clearly, didn’t want me to know. So I figured I’d respect that.”

“Why?”

Stiles shrugs, “People keep secrets because they think they’ve got a good reason to. Who knows, they might have. I get that.”

The tension Peter has been dragging around for the past month or so leave his shoulders. He didn’t realise how much he’d been dreading a betrayal from Stiles. He breathes.

“I was trying to protect you.”

Stiles’ smile is equal parts fond and bitter, “Sorry, buddy. You sort of signed up for failure with that. I don’t need protecting. I’m in way too deep, in matters you have no say in.”

“I get that.”

He does. Whatever Stiles brought with him to New York, it was there before Peter came into his life, he sees that now. Stiles carries himself like a fighter, like Deadpool or Daredevil, hell, probably like Peter himself. Peter has to respect that.

But whatever Stiles is involved in, his city is also involved in. So he can’t  _not_  have a say.

Stiles seems to read his mind, as Peter opens his mouth, he nods decisively. “I’ll tell you all you need to know. But not here. It isn’t safe.”

Peter shuts his mouth. He doesn’t trust Stiles, not quite, not yet. He does, however, understand him. So he holds his silence.

 

* * *

 

Stiles brings Peter back to the Astors’ den.

He's nervous about how the supernaturals will react to him bringing in an outsider, but Peter can’t be human. I mean, the dude climbs up walls and dodges bullets on a nightly basis! He’d called ahead to let Calum know they were coming, referring to Peter only as a ‘friend with some special skills that can help us’.

They are greeted by a full meeting(slash-dining) table. All the main supernatural authorities look up at their entrance. Simultaneously, and expectantly. Stiles falters in his step and almost backs out of the room. Only Peter’s presence behind him, and his own experiences of not caving to supernatural power, stop him.

“Whoa okay. Wasn't expecting the full council. So, guys, this is my roommate, Peter. Peter, meet the main supernatural jurisdiction in this territory.”

“Ah, yes. The roommate, Spider-man. Lovely to finally meet you in person.  _Great_  fan of your work!” Calum leaps forward and pumps Peter’s hand up and down, not unlike an enthusiastic puppy.

Stiles just gapes.

Peter throws him a look of betrayal, Stiles frantically shakes his head and tries to remember how to use words.

“Wait, you guys  _knew_?!”

Greta snorts, “Of course, dear. What, was it supposed to be a secret?” She sends a thoroughly unimpressed glance in Peter’s direction. “He’s not very subtle.”

Peter looks like he's desperately wishing spiders could camouflage.

“And you didn't think it would be a good idea to let me know?” Stiles is mildly outraged, but righteously so.

“Well, it's more fun this way,” Calum shrugs, nonchalant and enjoying himself  _way too much_. “We knew you'd figure it out. Eventually.”

“So...  _everyone_ in New York knows who I am,” Peter whispers, mostly to himself. He's pale and shaky, looking seconds away from a meltdown. “ _Everyone._ In New York. Knows.” As if saying it again would make it any less true.

Calum seems to take pity on him, “Only the Supes. We do have some  _different_ senses from the humans, so don't be too hard on yourself. You managed to fool most of the mundane community, that's an achievement!”

Peter doesn't look convinced, he shoots Calum a look of devastation. “Most?”

Deciding that now would be a good time to jump in and derail Peter’s panic train, Stiles blurts out the first thing he thinks of, “I found out the cause of the dark energies!”

Silence follows his announcement. All eyes are on him as Stiles swallows nervously and continues.

“It’s a sorceror. I traced the energy he was sending out on one of the lines to this old warehouse on the docks. I got a good look at his set-up before he caught me and sent his familiar after me.”

“And you’ve got a plan?”

Stiles grins at Calum.

“I’ve got an _awesome_ plan.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles has an  _awful_  plan. Peter is appalled.

It’s borderline suicidal, and just off the edge of insane. No one else seems to share his sentiments. They are nodding along as the  _crazy college student_  draws out a tactical map, chiming in with opinions and advice, but not a single disputation of the prudence of the entire operation.

The worst part of the plan, though, is that  _Peter_  has a role in it. A significant role, in a god-awful plan that Peter would rather never have heard about.

Maybe Stiles  _is_  in a crazy cult after all. Maybe he fed Peter some ‘shrooms or some other kind of dubious substance and this is all one huge hallucination. Maybe, but the  _thing,_  what had Stiles called it? A familiar? It had felt real, too real. Peter’s not lucky enough to escape with a hallucination. This is definitely real.  _That_  is the worst part.

“Hey man, you okay?”

Peter looks up. Somehow, he’d ended up in a corner on the floor with his head in his hands. Stiles is sliding down next to him.

“Depends on your definition of okay.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, his hands fiddling with a ball of twine. For all that Peter doesn’t know about Stiles, he does know this; it’s impossible for him to keep still. Some part of him always has to be in motion, Peter’s noticed.

“Well, I define okay as not climbing the walls to get away from me. Which I know you can do. Because you’re Spider-man.”

Peter’s lips twitch, “Then I suppose I am okay? Freaking out a little, all this  _magic_  and  _werewolves_  is a bit hard to take in, but I’m not climbing the walls. Yet.”

“Dude! You’re  _Spider-man_ , but werewolves are what you’re stuck on?”

“My abilities can be explained by science. People who turn furry because of a rock in the sky? If you can only offer ‘magic’ as an explanation, then I’m sorry, but I’m gonna need a rain-check on the acceptance portion of the night.”

“Actually! One of my friends is working on the scientific explanation of supernatural phenomenons, it’s pretty interesting. If we get through this, I’ll introduce you. You’ll love Lydia, you two can nerd out on your ‘science’ and ‘logic’.”

“ _If_?”

‘ _When_ ,” Stiles concedes. “It’ll be fine, my plans work! Remember Gaggy Stanturd? Don’t be a such a scaredy spider.”

“ _Not_  a scaredy spider,” Peter mumbles petulantly. Stiles just laughs.

“Here,” he holds out the ball of twine. It’s been fashioned into some sort of charm necklace. “It’s for luck and protection. Just something extra for you.”

Peter takes the charm reverently, “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Stiles flaps a hand dismissively, then brings it up to rub the back of his head. “I like you, Peter, you’re cool. Don’t die, yeah!”

He flashes a smile and raises his fist.

“I’ll try.” Peter smiles back.

He bumps Stiles’ fist with his own.

 

* * *

 

 _Operation ‘Silver Linings’_  goes off without a hitch. Of course it does, Stiles has the  _best_  plans. Everyone who disagrees is just a non-believer.

Dawn finds Stiles and Peter dangling their legs off the edge of one of New York’s many skyscrapers. Calum and his pack stayed behind after the big showdown with the sorcerer to cover up remaining evidence of the supernatural. The perks of being a non-local consultant, is that Stiles doesn’t have to stick around for the clean up.

“So that went surprisingly well.”

Stiles glares at Peter. “What do you mean  _surprising_?”

Peter chuckles, “My roommate is crazy.” He’s in his suit, having worn it for the showdown. He pulled his mask off though, and his hair is messy and sticking up all over his head.

“Says the guy who looks like he just escaped from an asylum,” Stiles reaches over to ruffle Peter’s already eccentric hair.

“You realize that you’ve now officially allied Spider-man with the Astor Pack, right? That means we will be working together on a lot more of these crises. You would not  _believe_  how much trouble the supernatural community is.”

Peter looks mock horrified, “Oh no, and they let  _you_  make plans like this all the time? Shit, I’m out. How do I un-ally myself.”

“Oh, my dear scaredy spider. You’re stuck on this crazy train, it’s a one way ticket to fucked up land, I’m afraid. All you can do now is enjoy the ride.”

Peter heaves a mournful sigh, “I suppose  _I_  am the crazy one. Should’ve requested a room change the moment I met you. Never trust someone who would rather play COD with a stranger than finish his unpacking.”

“Too bad, bro. You’re stuck with me. Like a fly on a spider’s web, which is ironic because  _which_  one of us is the spider again? We can be the crazy roommates. Every dorm need a pair, right!”

True, and Peter is starting to realise that he wouldn't have it any other way.

Getting a roommate was not such a bad idea after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr! @[Castleinthegale](http://castleinthegale.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I am no sidekick](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6514408) by [Kmy_leprovost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kmy_leprovost/pseuds/Kmy_leprovost)




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